


carry that weight

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Pre-Canon, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, Strength Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28083822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: “I don’t know how it got so heavy,” said Edward, frowning down at the chest where it rested, squat and threatening, on the cobblestones. When he’d carried it off theVindictiveit had been with his own two arms, had it not?“Maybe it hasn’t,”  said the Marine, “maybe it’s you that’s lost your strength.”for my Terror Bingo square: "Luggage"
Relationships: Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 24
Kudos: 62
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2020)





	carry that weight

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY 209TH BIRTHDAY EDWARD LITTLE ❤️ (and by extension, happy 38th to mr. mcnulty. sorry this turned into a whole thing about your lovely pale noodle arms)

“Need some help with that, sir?”

“No, it’s all right,” Edward said, or rather gasped, as he tried to heave his sea-chest off the street. The stage had disappeared around the corner before he’d thought to ask the coachman for help getting it up the stairs to his rooms, and now it was too late.

“You sure?”

Edward meant to say _yes, of course,_ but he lost his grip and the chest thumped to the ground, nearly landing on his toes; he staggered back, panting, his hands on his knees until his breath returned.

When he looked up he saw that his companion was a lone Marine; an unusual sight, for in Edward's memory the red-coats usually traveled in packs this close to the barracks, swaggering around in varying degrees of drunkenness and menacing volunteers and women. The man was a sergeant, by the stripes on his jacket: he carried his cap at his hip and was drumming his fingers against it. His thin mouth was quirked, underneath golden-brown whiskers, in a look of mild amusement.

“I don’t know how it got so heavy,” said Edward, frowning down at the chest where it rested, squat and threatening, on the cobblestones. When he’d carried it off the _Vindictive_ it had been with his own two arms, had it not?

“Maybe it hasn’t,” said the Marine, “maybe it’s you that’s lost your strength.”

 _The cheek!_ thought Edward; but they were not on a ship, he had no recourse to reprimand or discipline, and the mood he was in—the sheer, fizzing hope that had suffused his soul, ever since Commander Fitzjames wrote to him to report to Woolwich and await word from the Admiralty regarding a possible commission—prevented him from taking any real umbrage.

So he shrugged, rocked back on his heels, and said modestly, “Perhaps. It has been…. a while. Ashore, I mean.”

The Marine nudged the chest with his boot to check its weight, and then nodded sagely. “I’ll make short work of it, no doubt,” he said, “we’ve been doing drills down at the barracks all month long—” and was that a trick of the dying afternoon light, or did he conspicuously flex his chest underneath his sleeves for Edward to see? He was indeed preposterously well-formed. Marines were all of a preening sort; but if anyone deserved to preen, it was this chap: all lines and angles, perfectly proportioned.

“Very well,” Edward said, “alright. It’s just this boarding-house, here—the third floor.” He bent to grab one handle of the chest; surely they would take it up together: but the Marine blocked his way, shouldering past him, the solid warmth of his flank sending a jolt right through Edward.

He replaced his cap on his bronze head; with one easy movement gripped both handles and heaved the chest up. A low grunt came from somewhere deep in his broad chest, and Edward averted his eyes, scrambling across the pavement to prop open the door of the boarding-house.

“Haven’t had a Marine help me with my dunnage since I was a mid,” remarked Edward, climbing awkwardly up the house's steep staircase behind the Marine, trying to will himself to put some distance between his face and the man’s arse as they ascended, and failing. Did he wear stays underneath that uniform, like many a red-coat, or did the trimness of his waist come natural?

He was aware he was attempting to alleviate the embarrassment of the situation with small talk; he was also aware he was flirting. A horrible, base act: but it had been a very long ride from Devon, and he was exhausted out of his mind, and not to mention still giddy with the thought of the end of his long shore leave, soon come at last. The heady combination loosed his tongue as if he’d been drinking all day long.

“The private’s name was Murphy—he had a scar on his cheek—I was terrified of him at first, but he turned out to be a fine man, everything you could want in a servant.”

They reached the first landing; the Marine, undaunted, untiring, sped up the next flight. The higher they climbed, and the more Edward rambled of Murphy, the more vivid in his mind the memory became. The private had really only been a few years older—seventeen, eighteen at most to Edward’s fourteen—but he had seemed the epitome of manhood to Edward, all stubble and discipline, and before Edward knew it he had been waking up in his bunk to sticky sheets after dreams of those brawny arms pinning him down so the Marine could have his hot and brutal way with him.

This, of course, he did not mention: instead remarking on Murphy’s skill with coaxing eggs from the _Anson_ ’s elderly hen in service of the midshipmen’s breakfasts, and the man’s skill at recollecting the lyrics of bawdy music-hall songs he’d heard only the once.

Regardless, by the time they reached the top floor, and Edward had to thrust past the Marine in the cramped corridor in order to fumble with the key in the lock and let them in, he could feel his face gone red, and his prick was beginning to fill against his leg.

The Marine, with more than a hint of ostentation, set the chest lightly down at the side of the rusty bedframe in the middle of the bare, ugly room, and dusted his hands off before crossing his arms over the buttons on his jacket.

“You, as a middie,” he said, staring Edward up and down, from his newly polished boots to his epaulettes. “Can’t imagine, sir.”

“I wasn’t much to look at. Horrible spots, all over,” said Edward, with a nervous laugh. He gestured at his face, where the scars were now well-covered by his hard-won whiskers.

“And skinny as a twig, I’d wager.”

“Yes—rather,” said Edward, unable to find it in himself to be insulted, not after the Marine had just done him such a kindness, and besides, he was right: he had been a streak of pale nothing, his uniform hanging horribly loose, subject to frequent teasing from his messmates; though the man Murphy never made such comments, which Edward had always been grateful for. 

It was nearly dusk now: the light filtering through the grimy windows of the room picked out the buckles on the shoulders of the Marine’s jacket in shining gold.

“I—I must give you something for your trouble, before you go,” said Edward, and fumbled in his pocket for a coin. The movement was automatic, trained into him by years of furtive encounters; he immediately regretted it, but it was too late—the shilling was in his hand, there was a glint of something in the Marine’s eye—eagerness? greed?—and he was handing it over.

There was a pause as the Marine took the coin from Edward—for a second their fingers brushed, and Edward fought back a shiver—and then he was gone. Heavy boots thudding down the stairs. A jaunty tune whistled, that Edward could not place. 

He sat down heavily on the bed, and kicked out at the trunk in frustration. He'd angled his toes entirely wrong, and was thus rewarded with a jolt of pain up his foot that sent him sprawling back onto the sheets, biting his tongue as not to cry out. 

The elated mood that had carried him from home had left him, wholly and suddenly, like morning mist cleared by a summer sun over the Med. All he could think now was how he had been ashore far too long; it had made him weak and womanish; that much was clear by the way he’d acted around the Marine. He had thought that a year in the country, keeping sole company with his sisters and their eligible friends, would cure him—or at the very least install in him once and for all the capacity for the restraint and temperance that was required of him, should he ever be promoted to Commander. But it had done nothing of the sort: all that rich French food; all that damned novel-reading; all the gossip and idleness and soft country breezes had withered him down to a mere inverted shadow of his wardroom self.

He would have to exorcise these urges before he boarded the ship, the _Erebus_ or the _Terror,_ whichever one it was to be—there were places he knew close by; places where, on leave from prior commissions, he had excused himself before.

In the morning, then. Yes, he would have to sort himself out in the morning…

Despite his exhaustion, his sleep was uneasy, and he drifted in and out of a doze, never diving so far as to dream. The room was cold, the blanket thin; he could not get comfortable.

At some late hour, a knock came—he thought perhaps the maid, come round with more coal—he rose, crept across the cold floor of the room in stocking feet and opened the door.

It was the Marine. “Sir,” he said, and nodded in greeting.

Had Edward fallen asleep after all? Was this another of his dreams, rocked loose in his overtired mind by the poorly suspended stage’s bumpy journey east?

The Marine did not leer threateningly; he did not look as if he came to cajole more coin out of Edward, nor assault him; nor drag him to the nearest street-corner watchman and let loose an accusation of indecency. His hands were held neatly and politely behind his back.

Edward swallowed, licked his lips: barely hesitated before silently moving aside, and the Marine strolled in, as if it were his own room and Edward a mere interloper. Edward closed the door, sliding home the lock.

“How many weeks before you set off, sir?” the Marine asked.

“I—I don’t know. I don’t have my orders yet—”

“Days? Weeks? Months?”

“I don’t know,” Edward repeated firmly. He could specify no further, because he knew what Fitzjames’s letter had said and he knew what he had been promised but he could not count on anything, there were dozens of lieutenants better qualified than he, better connected, with polar experience, even; he might very well languish on land for the rest of his days. It’s what he would deserve, anyway.

“There’ll be time enough, then,” said the Marine.

“... Time for what?”

The Marine reached out and laid a hand on Edward’s shoulder—without the layers of his jacket and uniform coat, he could feel the heat of the man’s palm through his nightshirt’s sleeve; the sweep of his thumb as he felt out the shameful, indolent slenderness of Edward’s upper arm.

“To make a man out of you yet.”

Edward’s mouth had gone dry: all at once, he could think of nothing more than getting his mouth around the Marine’s prick, but when he dropped to his knees and pawed at the man’s trousers, the Marine caught him at the wrist and held it firmly away, letting out a low scoff, amused and impertinent, nearly mocking.

Instead of offending Edward, the noise merely worsened his need; he tried with his other hand but that too was caught in a flash, and then the Marine was hauling Edward up off the ground by the wrists.

The bed was right there—but the Marine ignored it, in favor of walking Edward backwards—turning him where he stood—and then bending him over the sea-chest, pushing his nightshirt up out of the way.

On his elbows and knees, his prick hard and leaking, Edward waited for the burn and stretch of the man's yard, the swift scorching press inwards that would erase all concerns.

But he had other plans: Edward heard him spit, and then there was a hot wet finger was at his fundament, opening him up methodically, with discipline and force, a real soldier’s touch—

“Oh—Christ—” he gasped, and the Marine growled, “Quiet,” dug his neatly pared nails of his other hand deep into the flesh of Edward's arse and Edward did as he was told, biting down on his lower lip to keep from crying out, to stop himself begging for more.

Even so, he tried to push back onto the Marine’s fingers (he had worked a second in, now)—but the Marine was holding him still, even as he squirmed.

“Knew you were desperate,” said the Marine, a hint of delight in his tone, “absolutely shameless, look at you. A right little miss.”

His fingers withdrew; Edward heard a telltale rustle of fabric; his blood, already up, surged even further. There was a fat prickhead drawing up between his cheeks, and then catching on his rim, pushing inside, slowly, so slowly—how could the Marine stand it, such forbearance, such control!—and then he was fully seated, beginning to move, and Edward collapsed face-down onto the hard, cold surface of the sea-chest and breathed his hitching, eager breaths right into the wood as the Marine fucked him.

It brought it all back: the ferocious want of his days as a midshipman—taking noon on the quarterdeck, distracted by the flash of scarlet off to the side as Murphy went below; watching with jealousy as he shaved the older mids, the ones whose beards had already come in; not understanding why his friends didn’t share in his fondness for the fellow—and how ever since then his most unnatural hungers had bent towards red coats, white gloves, reversal of proper roles.

“Why are you stopping?” hissed Edward, for indeed the Marine had slowed and shallowed his movements, no longer hitting the spot of sparking pleasure within Edward with every stroke.

“Up.”

“What?”

The man brought a hand to Edward’s shoulder and pulled. “Back on your elbows. Hold yourself up.”

“On my—good Lord, you can’t be serious.”

“Keep yourself up, and I’ll keep going. And give you a tug as well, but you’ve got to stay up. Come now.”

Edward did as he was told; his arms began to shake, but he managed to hold himself up while the Marine drove into him anew. Per his promise the Marine eventually brought a hand around and began to frig him, neatly and efficiently as any servant—

It was with this thought at the forefront of his mind that Edward came, messy and intense, all overtop the sea-chest—he clenched hard around the prick in his arse and with a low, primal noise from behind the Marine followed, spilling warm up into Edward.

Edward let himself fall forward again, his eyelashes brushing against the wood of the chest as the Marine pulled out. By the time he managed to dizzily rearrange himself into a sitting position, ashamedly aware of the mess he’d made of his poor dunnage, not to mention his nightshirt, the Marine had buttoned himself back up in full, and was sitting back on the bed, with his arms folded once more across his chest.

“Room for improvement,” he said. “But not bad.”

“Well. You know where I live,” said Edward stupidly. He would be here for a while. His crisis had made it clear to him: the commission would fall through; some young son of an MP, newly passed, would edge him out of consideration; he would lie awake at night in this cheap bedsit and wait for the Marine to come to him, to train him up, to teach him to take that thick yard without losing his breath or falling on his face. That, unlike this mirage of a commission, was something he felt himself readily up to.

“I do, sir. I sure do.”

The next morning, as Edward blearily sampled the landlady’s watery coffee and suspicious porridge, a messenger came with an envelope, bearing the Admiralty’s seal.

It was official: Edward Little was to serve under Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier on _HMS Terror_ as First Lieutenant; he was hereby required and directed to proceed immediately to the receiving hulk _HMS Salsette_ where he would berth with the rest of the commissioned officers while _Terror_ finished fitting out; and for so doing this shall be his Order, et cetera.

“You’ll need help with your luggage, then, love?” the landlady asked, peering at the missive where it laid on the table, Edward staring down at it as though it was liable to explode at any moment. “I can have one of my boys carry it on down dockside soon as you like.”

Edward shifted uncomfortably in his seat; the hard chair was not a friend to the current wretched state of his lower half. Any delay in arrival would not reflect well on a First Lieutenant; but he did not want a stranger, no matter how strapping, to carry that chest, which he’d scrubbed off best he could but still retained some ineffable remnant of his own sin upon it.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I think I will try to manage on my own.”

He did not appreciate the landlady’s skeptical look at that; he returned to his porridge, and to his orders, and with conscious effort turned his thoughts away from the events of last night and towards to _Terror,_ and the men he might meet there.

***

**Author's Note:**

> he's at the marine kink. he's at the steward kink. he's at the combination marine kink and steward kink. 
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) and [twitter!](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe)


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